Three gorgeous women stood around me in a loose triangle, conspiring. I couldn’t see their facial expressions because my eyes were at waist-level; I was not standing, but on my knees, in their midst.
I wondered what they were feeling, and what a potent complement it must be to my experience. My wrists were secured behind my back in a pair of snug but comfortable velcro cuffs. There was a cool breeze from a window that teased my uncovered skin; they remained clothed and unfazed.
Somehow, I was not dreaming.
“Do you know how many men would kill to be in your position right now?” Asked Page, grasping my bearded chin with her fingertips to tilt my head back until we made eye contact. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes that made my heart pound even faster.
My mind was blank, unable to find purchase in a whirlpool of emotions that I couldn’t wait to drown in. I felt the addictive thrill of uncertainty and nascent panic, a cocktail of neurochemicals that told me:
“Run, before they tear you to pieces!”
An enervating glow tempered the fear, a glow that always came with being the center of attention. I felt powerful and cocky, like a captured hero with a trick up his sleeve. I knew I didn’t have any sleeves. That was the point: this game was designed for me to lose, but everyone loves to see the arrogant meet their comeuppance, so I let the hubris percolate, eager for my captors to make me regret it. The message from this part of the whirlpool sounded like:
“Naked, bound, and outnumbered. I like those odds.”
The confidence bubbled to the surface first.
“I’d kill to be in my position right now,” I said, grinning proudly when they laughed.
“Well, you don’t have to,” Page began, reaching across my cheek so she could slide her fingers over my scalp and interlock them firmly with my hair. I gasped as I lost control of my head to her grip, and felt two more pairs of hands on me, stroking my bare shoulders and chest. I shuddered.
Page leaned down until my face was just beneath hers. The combined fragrance of her perfume and breath and skin pulled me deeper into the whirlpool. I inhaled with abandon.
She gripped my hair more tightly and continued:
“… Because you’re such a good boy. You’re special.”
I felt special. I was 28, having one of the best nights of my life, and I was mostly too distracted to do much in the way of reflection.
However, there were occasional breaks between scenes, when they would sprawl out across Page’s sofa, leaving me to sit on the floor so they could take turns reaching over to idly play with my hair or mouth, the way you would stroke a docile house pet.
It was during one of these breaks, as I lay still blindfolded and squirming under their leisurely wandering hands, that I had a moment to wonder:
How did I get here?
—
It’s a long story, one best told in parts. With the perspective of time, however, some arcs and themes have become clear. One theme in particular proved to be a foundation for all of the rest, a mantra that I unknowingly nurtured for a long time:
Be patient.
All of the fulfilled fantasies, all of the joy and balance and satisfaction, all of the incredible people I’ve been lucky enough to meet and keep in my life; all of it began with patience.
It was no coincidence that I remained oblivious to the growth of this skill during its formative years, because if I knew that it was happening, I would have nipped it in the bud, because I am not, generally speaking, a patient person.
I have terrible impulse control. If someone administered the marshmallow test to me today, I would likely scarf down the first marshmallow before they even finished describing the parameters of the experiment.
However, the kind of patience I developed was not for marshmallows, but for people.
It is not a skill I use like a tool, the way I think of many other skills. Human patience is more like a library that began as a lonely room of empty bookcases. Every time I learn something new about how people work, the shelves fill a little more.
Now, when I am feeling impulsive, frustrated, entitled, or disappointed with someone, I walk through this library, deconstructing my situation until I can look at it from a more useful perspective. The key to patience is not waiting, but figuring out what to do so it feels less like waiting.
So how does one figure it out? What is it that we can do instead of just waiting for someone else to give us what we want?
I got there eventually, but the first shelves of my library were filled with examples of what not to do. I failed most of my first lessons in human patience.
My first exposure to kink was through the internet, where I met girls who would tell me what to do as we whispered into the phone or typed one-handed into instant messages. Intoxicated by the mixture of novelty and pubescent testosterone, I badgered them all incessantly. I had no other outlet: My first few “in-person” relationships did not survive the kink conversation, which was met with combinations of concern and revulsion.
I was sent packing back to the screen, where I habituated the secret shame of my fantasies, venting them in chat rooms and furtive phone calls, convinced that fulfillment was about as likely as a lightning strike. I filled message logs with persistent streams of “Hey”s, and self-conscious attempts at flirting that possessed all the subtlety of a runaway freight train.
In the shadow of this perceived scarcity, I obsessed over every possible opportunity to taste the fruit of submission, just as my fellow young men chased traditional sex.
My impatience manifested as a lot of talking. Wheedling, begging, bargaining, blathering incessantly of my increasingly-complex fantasies. I thought to myself:
“Dominant women are always talking about how hard it is to find a good submissive guy. I’m charming, articulate, and sensitive, so I must be a catch, right?”
It took me years to realize that I was not only hobbling myself, but wasting the time and attention of the women who tolerated (usually) and encouraged (occasionally) my libidinous outpourings. Untrained in human patience, I never gave them the space to explore and communicate their fantasies. There was no compromise, no conversation, no mixture of elements to catalyze a reaction greater than its parts. I had unwittingly treated my partners like fantasy fulfillment machines.
As my approach changed, the difference was palpable. I went out of my way to serve my partners’ interests, and they were happy to do the same in return. It also became easier to avoid relationships that were destined to fail: when both people have a chance to communicate what they want, it becomes possible to evaluate how closely their desires match.
I now take this approach into the rest of my life as well:
Listen and act.
Don’t tell people what you want. Instead, find out what they want, and advertise what you have to offer.
Meet people, not “dommes” or “women”. Let the fun stuff happen if and when you find a compatible partner.
The ability to focus on someone else’s world, to proactively anticipate their needs and desires, is paramount. This goes for relationships of every shape and size, kinky or “vanilla”, monogamous or not. Relationships between a “submissive” man and a “dominant” woman are no exception.
The ability to understand what someone else is looking for and say, “It sounds like you want to jump into a very serious full-time thing, which is great, but I’m just experimenting casually,” is paramount.
Unless you can set expectations this way, you will always be adrift at sea with no compass. Expectations are the maps we use to navigate relationships. If you set sail without a map, well, you’d better be good at reading the stars. I never was.
—
When Page picked me up at the airport that weekend, it was our first time meeting face-to-face, but we had known each other for almost six years. We met online (like you do) and became close friends with a considerable kink rapport. She would send me teasing pictures of her dancing outfits, with commands to bring myself to the edge of orgasm and stop, or dot my inner thighs with clothespins, and I would send back photos of the damage, or of the faces I made as I strained to avoid orgasm. Sometimes we would just catch up and vent about problems in our lives, or congratulate each other on milestones.
Absent the pressure of romance or a persistent dynamic, and separated by an entire continent, it was easier for us to maintain mutually-fulfilling chemistry, even as I continued to learn what it took to make that happen.
After my arrival, we did not jump directly into the triple strapon gangbang. There was some serious teasing during the car ride, sure, but mostly our first few hours were spent catching up, joking, getting coffee, and reviewing her impressive collection of vintage action figures.
Two days later, she summoned her friends: Mindy, scandalously young, who Page liked to refer to as her “protegé”, and Rip, another dancer from her club. Neither was experienced with kink, and Page had a dual purpose in recruiting them specifically: She had been promising to take them both under her wing, but she also knew what their presence would mean for me.
Being worked over in front of an inexperienced observer produces a unique and exquisite feeling of vulnerability. Everything is new to them, and old thrills can be revitalized by the fresh perspective. Page knew my resistance would melt as soon as one of them commented, “Aw, he whimpers so nicely.”
All did not go according to plan, however, and this was where my lessons in human patience and service became vital.
Page woke up sick that day, possibly from food poisoning. It was immediately clear that she could not effectively run our scene in that state.
If I wanted the fantasy, I was going to have to be patient.
I mentally walked through my library, taking an inventory of the moving parts. Whether or not I’d have my night of debauchery was no longer in my hands. And even if she was willing to do it anyway, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Who can manage a decent thrusting rhythm while fighting off nausea?
Before frustration could percolate, I moved on to the next step: listen and act. I would distract myself by focusing on someone else.
“I’m sorry. I can’t believe this is happening today,” Page moaned, leaning against the bathroom doorjam. “I’ve been looking forward to this for months. And so have you! I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m just happy to be visiting with a friend. I’ll be disappointed if we don’t get to make the scene happen, but we can always try again later. When your friends get here, we can just hang out and take care of you.”
It was all true. Maybe a lie of scale, since “disappointed” would be more accurate preceded by “crushingly” or “oh-my-god so”, but the gist was all there. And, because we were good friends, I really was already happy to be out there with her.
So, we hung out. Mindy and Rip arrived, there was some mild flirting, and by the time evening fell, Page felt up to venturing out for food. She had overestimated her recovery and spent most of the outing curled up in her corner of the restaurant booth and apologizing, but the rest of us were happy to reassure her as we all got to know each other more.
When we got back to her place, Page stomped her foot resolutely (and only almost fell over), declaring: “I want to make this happen, damn it. I’m going to take some drugs, have a nap, and see if that makes a difference.”
To everyone’s relief, it did.
(Though she has insisted ever since that she would have really blown my mind if she were at 100%.)
—
Page and her friends put me through my paces that night. She had me lie on my back on the rug so they could pile their socks and panties over my face, cooing in fascinated amusement as the sweat and pheromones made my cock hard and my cheeks red. She ordered me to remain still as she used my back, thighs, and chest to walk Mindy through a lesson in Riding Crops 101. She made me call each of them Mistress (Rip gasped with a hand over her mouth), and beg for the privilege of getting them off with my tongue.
As the night reached its crescendo, she sent me to the restroom to take a break. I returned to the three of them sword-fighting with the strapons jutting from between their thighs, giggling and wondering aloud how guys resisted the urge to spar with theirs.
“Oh, you’re back,” Page announced, and they immediately went silent, sinking down to lounge in a loose half-circle on the floor, looking for all the world like a trio of lionesses taking a breather before finishing off their wounded prey. I shrank to my knees and waited, heart pounding. They were sitting in order of cock size.
Page beckoned me closer, until I was between her legs, with her strapon bobbing only inches beneath my face. Both of her friends watched hungrily as she spoke.
“I know you like to suck girl cock. If you beg me convincingly enough, maybe I’ll fuck you with it, too.”
My ego had expired long ago, taking shame and dignity with it. I was in a trance of arousal and servitude, and I leapt to the task with no trace of my traditional bashfulness.
“Please, Mistress,” I purred, arching my back and gazing lustfully up at her as my arousal sublimated into real urgency. “Please let me suck your cock. I promise I’ll be a good boy for you.”
I apparently didn’t just surprise myself with my enthusiasm. I still feel a little proud when I remember her flustered silence and almost-blush, lasting all of one second.
(“You flirted with me,” she would tell me later when we recounted the moment.)
It was a short-lived moment. She recovered immediately, and I felt her cock at the back of my throat only seconds later.
The time after that is a blur, except for one moment that crystallized it all. It was towards the end of the night, when their rapport had reached a peak, bolstered by the heady brew of sex and control and camaraderie. None of them had addressed me for quite some time. Instead they spoke with each other, discussing what to do next or which reaction of mine was most pleasing.
Page knelt down to where I waited on elbows and knees, and wrenched my hair back to hold my head in place. She instructed her friends to take up positions at either end of my body, and Rip remarked:
“Oh my God. Do we get to ‘Eiffel Tower’ him?”
“Yes you fucking do,” Page answered.
Blindfolded, I couldn’t see a thing. I didn’t know whose strapon was stuffed into my mouth. My hearing, however, was fine. I heard one of them shout, “Oh my GOD,” then all of them bursting into laughter as they fucked me, and finally, the distinctive crack of a sincere high-five.
For a moment, I no longer felt like prey, or a captured hero, or any of those things. At first, I thought it was distraction, their antics taking me “out of character”. But, almost immediately, the realization of perspective washed over me:
They were having fun.
We had established a dynamic. We had hung out and scened all day and night, gotten used to each other, discovered and negotiated some boundaries and preferences and expectations. All three of them felt so comfortable around me, so trusted the genuineness of my submission and obedience, that they were able to let their guards down and just share in a delightful experience with their friends, without worrying about whether they were being sexy or mean or nice or dominant enough for me.
In that moment, I was observing their experience rather than sharing in it directly. But I observed with the knowledge that I had played a vital role in making that experience possible.
It has become one of my most treasured memories: a capstone in the first major arc of my growth as a lover, as a submissive, as a person. A moment of pure intimacy, trust, and human-ness.
Later, as Mindy and Rip departed, we all exchanged heartfelt hugs. Rip locked eyes with me and said, “Thank you,” and meant it, and I said thank you back, and meant it.
When Page dropped me off at the airport the next day, we exchanged goodbyes and last-minute gropes. Just before I exited her car, her phone buzzed, and after checking it, she looked up at me with a sly grin.
“Lucky boy,” she said,
“Rip wants to know when you’re going to visit next.”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/4xw8fd/patience_and_pegging_fffm_msub_fdom_bdsm
Really awesome read.